


shotgun

by soislibre



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hand Jobs, Introspection, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Praise Kink, almost a character study, it FLIRTS with the idea, michael is a big fuckin simp x, no beta we die like men, what on EARTH am i up to in this place at this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soislibre/pseuds/soislibre
Summary: it is no one’s dream to ride shotgun in their own body
Relationships: Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 78





	shotgun

**Author's Note:**

> and on the seventh day the lord said let there be sin
> 
> i! love! italics!!

This is not what Adam had planned for the rest of his life.

First of all, it is _no one’s_ dream to ride shotgun in their own body, he’s fairly sure. To not have the reins. To watch as his own mouth says things he wouldn’t say, see his hands make gestures he would _never_ make because they would look absolutely insane if he did it. He sits in the passenger seat and lets himself be driven. And that’s not to say he _minds_. Maybe he minded at first, but it’s been centuries, or millennia, or maybe decades, and he’s well used to it by now. He’s used to seeing through infinitely clearer eyes, he’s used to ending conversations by literally disappearing around the nearest corner, he’s used to hearing someone double-checking (albeit reluctantly at first) whether what Adam is saying or doing is actually what Adam would say or do.

What he _still_ isn’t used to is the detachment of just watching his hands move. They’re not really his hands half the time - Venom-like symbiosis, this certainly is _not._ It’s more of a Batman and Robin type thing and really, he doesn’t care enough to be salty about that.

Also there are times when it’s a really good thing.

**Adam.**

He blinks back to his - their - body, and his hand does something complicated that he’s never done before. His back arches, unbidden. “ _Fuck_ , dude.”

**Please don’t call me that at times like this.** It’s gently chiding, but there’s a ripple of amusement that floods across his skin, and he feels his mouth curling into a smile. **You know my thoughts on it.**

“That’s kinda - _shit_ \- the point,” he gasps. He tosses his head to one side, presses his unoccupied fingers into his own mouth, and bites sharply as his wrist twists again. “You know mine, I know yours, wasn’t that it?”

**The amount of attitude you have _right now_ is almost unbelievable. Maybe I need to work harder.**

Adam whines, high-pitched and cracking in his throat, when his palm ends up somehow _slick_ and his hand starts to move faster. **Focus,** he says and Adam is helpless in the face of that tone; he can do nothing but obey, withdrawing back into himself so he can feel everything and do nothing.

Just the way Michael wants.

There are a lot of super weird dynamics that come with fucking an archangel. One who categorically refuses to leave his body. Michael doesn’t want another host longterm, not when Adam is perfect for him, and Adam would feel way too fucking icky if Michael took one just for the purposes of giving him a good dicking. Not to say he wouldn’t _love_ said dicking, but there’s a whole conversation around consent involved in that and neither of them are willing to entertain the idea anyway. Certainly not when being inside their head is like an echo chamber in the best and worst of ways. Every single movement Michael makes with their hand, Adam feels, and in return Michael feels it, and because Michael mirrors Adam’s pleasure but a thousand times more intensely, Adam’s body ends up reacting a thousand and _one_ times over. And it always fucking ends too soon.

(So they just have to go again. He’s still only twenty, after all, no matter how long he’s been twenty.)

They’re both fairly insatiable, too. Michael gets so fluttery and proud when Adam melts into the sheets, too out of breath to use his voice. And, even though he’s the Archangel Michael and he has more than once pulled a flaming sword out of thin air using Adam’s own hand, Adam is fully, grossly _obsessed_ with fluttery proud Michael.

**Adam!**

“I’m _sorry_!” he yelps back, a hand circled tight around the base of his cock dragging his thoughts back to what’s going on right now. He wants to come, he can feel it in his clenched toes and his gritted teeth and the twist in the pit of his stomach. But Michael doesn’t let him, even though he’s back now and he’s focused. “Mike, c’mon, I’m here, I need it.”

**No.**

Adam whines through his teeth, trying to get himself to just fucking move his own goddamn hand. “ _Please_.”

**_Focus_ ,** Michael repeats insistently, almost grouchy. Clearly, Adam is a fucking sap, because all he does is grin and nod. Sure, _that’s_ a movement Mike will allow. Angels are real assholes sometimes.

**No. You.**

“You!” Adam argues. Michael presses his thumb against the head of his cock, into the slit, and his voice jumps up maybe two octaves. Embarrassing. 

**Nothing your body does can be embarrassing to you anymore, surely.**

“Quit reading my thoughts.” 

Adam swears harshly. Michael is jerking him off again now, adding a neat little flick at the end of every upstroke. It’s maddeningly slow and not enough and he wants to reach into his own body and strangle the angel somewhere inside himself, and he pushes that irritation at Michael with no repentance. Michael laughs. It comes out of Adam’s throat and echoes inside his head at the same time, and he winces. 

“Too big, baby.”

**Sorry.**

Michael is overwhelming. Not just during sex, although the genuine pleasure he takes in edging Adam has more than once ended in (good) tears, but also just in general. He’s so big and so loud and so bright and sometimes Adam can’t even fucking look at him because he would very much like to not end up a drooling mess inside his own brain. When things like that happen, when Michael takes Adam’s ears _and_ his mouth, it’s too much. Particularly if Adam’s guard is down. Which it is right now. There is, essentially, a stranger’s hand around his dick, so he can be forgiven for not having those walls up quite as high as he should do.

“Come _on_ , Mikey, let’s get this show on the road,” he insists as he rolls his hips upward into his own rough palm. He’s never felt so blessed as he does when Michael fucking finally decides he agrees. The strokes pick up their pace, smearing a mixture of weird ( ~~creepy~~ ) angel lube and precome down the reddened length of his dick, and he almost yelps again as Michael dips a couple of fingers downwards. They slide over his balls as if those aren’t even important - “you _bastard_ ” - and end up pressing along his perineum and back, back until one fingertip pops so very gently into his own body.

The slickness is good, but it sure as hell isn’t enough for more than half of his index, sliding in up to the first knuckle and pausing to let him catch his breath as best he can. It’s weird how he can abstractly feel himself contorting to make this happen, and yet the finger feels like someone else’s. Good weird, but still a weird he hasn’t quite gotten used to. “More,” he begs. Michael’s answering chuckle is only in his head, thank fuck. That finger curls, presses upwards; it’s not deep enough to even _flirt_ with his prostate, but it rubs beautifully against the wall of muscles around it, coaxes Adam open ever so slightly.

**You are so warm.** Michael’s voice is soft. Sweet, even. 

God, Adam fucking _loves_ him.

His chest heats with a matching feeling, making him grin and rub his other hand very affectionately over his still, silent heart. “Come on, nerd, make me take your name in vain until Castiel gets mad at us again.”

This time, when the laugh grates out of his mouth, it’s not so much. Symbiosis, see?

Michael makes a mental note to question which kind of venom Adam is thinking about and whether it’s dangerous, and, when Adam giggles, punishes him by wrapping their free hand around his wet cock and picking up a pace that leaves him gasping for air in maybe three seconds. “Michael, Michael, Mike, c’mon,” he begs, slurring the words together as his feet plant on the bed and his hips twist upwards. Just because he’s a passenger, doesn’t mean he can’t sometimes pull the wheel in his direction. He rocks up into his own palm and sure, Michael is definitely _allowing_ this, but fuck, he can feel how pleased Michael is with this reaction so how could he complain?

**You still would.**

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Mike,” he pants, crying out sharply at a nicely timed swipe of Michael’s thumb. “Oh, please, please make me come.” Because it’s been fucking hours, it’s been minutes, it’s been days. He doesn’t know or care how long exactly. His world has narrowed down to three things:

  1. the heaving breaths he doesn’t need to take,
  2. Michael’s voice crooning soft endearments that only Adam will ever get to hear, and
  3. how he is fucking _desperate_ for release,



and he will focus on those things until he dies or comes.

**The latter, please, you’re far too good to waste.**

Adam can hear how deeply this is affecting Michael. It helps to know he’s not the only one about to fucking dissolve. Michael’s voice is just a little weaker, impossibly deep inside his head. The _focus_ he must have right now; he is a megaphone, amplifying Adam’s sensations tenfold, and when it’s as intense as it is Adam has no fucking clue _how_ Michael has the coordination to fuck two fingers deep inside him whilst rubbing their calloused palm over the head of his cock.

Before Michael can give him any kind of reply to that question he didn’t formally ask, he hisses a mean warning. Wisely, Michael says nothing like that.

**I wish you could see the way you look, Adam. Your eyes are b _— ah! So brilliant._**

Adam’s face heats. His blood is little more than decoration most of the time, but somehow he still manages to blush.

**You are perfect. Perfect for me, and perfect in every way,** Michael purrs, voice sweeping through his head. He turns his head into the pillows. **Oh, l** **ook, Adam.**

Because Michael asks him to, he looks. He glances down to watch the head of his cock disappear into the circle of his fingers with each stroke. Beyond it, his wrist is flexing in a telltale motion - even if he didn’t have two fingers up his own ass, he would know exactly what Michael was doing down there. His skin is tanned, he has a couple of tiny white scars on his fingers, a bruise on the inside of his wrist where he bit himself trying not to be so loud the night before. Michael hadn’t healed that bruise, the rat bastard, he’s far too smug about it.

Precome dribbles between his fingers, warm, slicking the way even more. He sobs desperately, pleading with Michael to tilt the fingers inside himself upwards and just let him _come already_.

For an archangel, Michael is relatively merciful.

Those two fingers twist and curl, and press _beautifully_ right where Adam so needs them to. He yells Michael’s name, hips arching clear off the bed, tossing his head against the cheap pillowcases, and the room _burns_ with grace as he comes. The warmth coats his hand this time, spurts between his fingers, over his stomach, in messy rapidly cooling ropes that he ends up slicking the way with as he ekes this climax out as long as he possibly can. It’s fucking _unreal_. 

Michael’s light shines out of him. He knows that because every time he blinks, he sees it against his own eyelids. He lights up the room - **you always do** \- in a way that’s so close to painful but isn’t when he has Michael. He sobs and his hips jerk and the moment Michael takes pity and stops stroking his dick, he raises that hand (as sticky and wet as it is) to pull the corner of one of the pillows into his mouth, but those fingers don’t stop their pressing and curling until he really genuinely thinks his dick might explode.

Before that thought has time to end, Michael eases them out very slowly. **Beautiful, Adam.**

“Fuck off,” Adam moans into the pillow, tasting a stranger’s shampoo on the purportedly clean linen. It’s very, very dark. The streetlights outside have blown. 

**I can’t possibly imagine why that would be.**

“Guess the power’s out.” 

Michael laughs softly, and his affection wraps itself around Adam’s overwhelmed soul like a weighted blanket.

Maybe it’s not so bad to be riding shotgun.

**Author's Note:**

> what the literal FUCK am i on right now
> 
> [yell at me](https://https://jeanmoreaun.tumblr.com/)


End file.
